“Very good, slave.” Felipe’s voice is scarcely above a whisper when he translates Celia’s words. She releases Kid’s hair and he audibly sighs in relief. She strokes his gold strands for a few seconds before she unbuckles Kid’s gag. Her audience sighs approvingly as they listen to Kid pull in ragged, humid breaths. Celia wipes away the drool on his lips.
Kid feels unhurried, seductive fingers caress his face, neck, and shoulders. Her touch is quickly becoming familiar. He appreciates the way she coaxes him toward genuine desire; he feels less violated when he wants it at least a little. His pride stings, but he prefers this method of torture to the others. Celia’s scent blooms over a wave of aroused heat Kid swears he can feel against his naked chest. He inhales swiftly before he can prevent himself. An image of her tight, raspberry-colored nipples perched on small breasts invades his pitch black sight. If he leans closer, he can take one in his mouth. She pulls away. He narrowly avoids falling on his face leaning after.
Kid is distressed without Celia to keep him engaged. He listens intently to every sound. There are whispers and stifled giggles. He startles when the room erupts in laughter. “Damn it, Felipe,” says a man in a thick Texas drawl. “You are a lucky bastard. Go on, honey—you teach that boy a lesson.”
Kid licks sweat off his upper lip. He whispers his plea just as he feels her presence. “Celia…” Help me. Her hand briefly cups his cheek and he is immediately distressed by the combination of her gentle touch and harsh tone.
He hears Felipe translate: “Put your face on the ground and lift your ass in the air.” Kid doesn’t move to obey. He’s paralyzed. The crowd hisses in disapproval.
“No?” inquires Celia.
“Please,” Kid says. He hardly recognizes the sound of his suddenly prepubescent voice. If he ever thought he was a badass, it was a fantasy. If he is anything, it’s cursed. “I’ve had enough. No more.”
“Enough? I’ve barely started,” simpers Celia. “And of course…” Kid waits with bated breath. “You forgot to say: Please, Celia.” Kid feels a blow across his chest before Felipe can finish translating. It stings like fire! He groans and bites hard into his lip as he attempts to rub his chest against his knees by doubling over.
Kid is struck across the back before he can pull himself back up. His only warning before the next blow is the keen swish that signals Celia’s arm coming down. He lowers himself. He braces. His groan is loud and open-mouthed. “Will you obey me?” she asks insistently.
“Yes, Celia,” Kid spits through gritted teeth. The crowd applauds.
“Prove it,” Celia purrs. “Lift your ass.”
Kid would swear he has ice in his lungs. It was one thing to fall apart in the basement, another to offer up his body to Celia and her twisted boyfriend, who would gut him if he said no…but this? One of his buttocks is prodded pointedly and he teeters on his knees before finally achieving the position Celia demands. Kid lacks the will or presence of mind to disobey. Since his parents’ death, he’s been follower, a relaxed, agreeable person. He has relied upon his malleable nature to gain friendship, love, and companionship. He relies upon it now to gain his next breath.
Celia drags long leather strands across the bare expanse of Kid’s flesh. Naked and tightly bound, he has no choice but to accept what is about to happen to him. His breathing hastens, sounds ragged, and each breath moves his entire body. The tips of the flogger kiss his balls. He hisses, writhing against the carpet. “Do you like that, slave?”
“No, Celia.”
Another tap. “That’s not polite. Shall I hit you harder? Like a man?” Hushed squeals of delight and muted chuckles erupt around them.
“No! No, Celia. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Kid pleads. He sobs into the carpet after a series of fierce blows strike him across his ass. He counts them, unexpectedly convinced they are his penance.
One: I’m sorry I didn’t try to save you, Uncle Tiny.
Two: I was scared and
Three: I don’t want to die.
Four: Please help me.
Five: I’m sorry.
“How was that, slave? Hard enough?
“Yes, Celia,” he mumbles brokenly. He wipes his face on the carpet, slowly and repeatedly. The gesture is less to remove tears, spit, and snot from his face, and more to appease some baser need. A distressed sound bubbles out of him when gentle fingers drift along his reddened skin.
“You’re doing so well, slave. Just a little more and I’ll reward you,” Celia croons.
“Th—thank you, Celia.” Kid can hardly breathe, let alone speak, but he struggles to get the words out anyway. His humiliation is momentarily usurped by his keen need to keep Celia happy, if for no other reason than his distaste for pain. Though, the strange desire to return to Celia’s room and her bed also exists. He wants to be held again. He keeps the thought close once his penance resumes.